Whimsy
by Angryventilationducts
Summary: Rose LaLonde suffers her cousin a bet to attend an event of her choosing after losing a drinking contest. Unfortunately, that event is the 'Gathering' of Juggalos on the last day of the festival. It's hot, sticky, and damn if she isn't awkward. Shenanigans ensue. Human AU. Characters via Hussie.
1. Chapter 1

Because my brain is fucking poking me and saying 'Hey! Write this!' When I already have NanoWrimo to deal with and RBTTT. Just. Shut the fuck up, brain. Fine. I give.

* * *

Looking at myself in the mirror, I must admit I feel a bit foolish. I'm a thirty year old woman, dressed in black pants, an ICP t-shirt, and a ridiculous amount of Hot Topic jewelry. Currently, I am greatly regretting the decision to bet with my cousin Roxy that I could drink her under the table. The hangover still makes me wince when exposed to direct sunlight, and it's been three days.

Closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I take stock of my life. I am Rose LaLonde. Therapist, and owner of an herbal remedy shop. That may or may not have a room in the back with which I can see patients on the sly. I own a lovely little cottage out in the middle of fuck-all no-where, which is just where I'd like it to be. I foolishly took my cousin out drinking the other night and challenged her to a drinking contest. The stakes were such that if I won, she'd have to be sober for a month. If she won, I had to go to an event of her choosing. Alone. Outside. Which I really haven't done for...almost a year now. The reasons for that...I'd rather not think about.

Sighing and turning away from the mirror to flop back on my bed, I muse over her intentions. She genuinely cares for me, in her drunk scientist 'lets do an experiment' kind of way. As she put it "Gog, Rise, er, Rose, get the fcuck *fuck* out of the house! You're beautiful, bb, and you need to share that with the world!" I think she was waxing philosophical at that point, but I understand the essentials. She's well meaning, but terribly meddlesome.

It wouldn't be the first time she's tried to pry me out of my shell over the last six or so months. Turning my head to sniff the pillow that was once Kanaya's, I remember the blind date she sprung on me when we went out for sushi. She brought along some snarky computer nerd, Sollux, I think, and left me to talk with a gentle giant of a man, who could barely speak through his stutters. He was sweet, but...I have my limits in patience.

Speak of the devil. She comes bouncing in, bright and chipper as sunshine and already smashed. "Rise and Shine, it's time to go!" Oh I hate you so much right now. Roxy plops down next to me, pouting, "Awww Rosie-posie! Why didn't you put on the mak-ip, er, make-up?" I glare at her through half-shut eyelids. She pokes my forehead, cheeky monkey. "Come onnnn, you can't have the full ICP exper. without the faaccceee Rooosssiiiiiieeee."

Smirking indulgently, I scrub my eyelid with my palm. " I'm terribly sorry, Rox. But there is simply no way, in the foreseeable future, that I will apply make up to make me look like an entertainer of children, who may or may not be in full control of their mental faculties." She whines a bit more, but gives in when she sees my 'srs' face.

"Fine. You're perf. the way you are anyway, you cutie patootie!" I hope a solar storm melts her face. She stands up, stretching like a lazy cat, "I'll see you in the car, babe. Hurry up!" Augh. This is the part I wasn't looking forward to. Well. Maybe I'm not looking forward to any of the parts, but whatever. Shut up.

She insisted on driving me to the "Gathering" herself and hailing a cab home after seeing me safely inside the 'Dark Carnival,' thus ensuring I would actually attend. Why does she hate me so much. Then again, the repercussions for leaving early (leaked pictures and videos of my less than laudable behavior at the bar that fated night) are incentive enough to stay. She's diabolical, and I love her. Bitch.

She waits for me in the passenger seat, because there is no way I'm letting her schnatzed ass drive my beautifully ugly old Ford Explorer to the concert. Or ever. The car ride consists of awkward silences and my desperate pleas for her to let me out of the bet. Each entreaty is met with an indifferent, "Noep, you made a promise, Rosie," and a Cheshire smile. This is going to be the longest hour drive ever.

I give up, turning up the radio so I can absorb the last good music I'll be able to listen to until I leave the concert a shaking mess. I really hate clowns. I hate Roxy. I can't hate alcohol, even though it's the reason I'm stuck participating in this awful game of one-upmanship, currently. The Black Keys wail about the girl that keeps them waiting.

We pull up to the carnival grounds at Cave-In-Rock, and I groan internally. It's the last day of the festival, and from what I can see, everyone is batshit bananas crazy, and it's only twelve o clock in the afternoon. People are camping out in tents and cars. Trash is everywhere. That...is a fat naked man running down the aisle of cars. I want eye bleach. I want to go home. Don't want to see scary clowns. No. You can't make me. Do not want.

Roxy cackles next to me, and I realize I'd been speaking aloud. "Ish okie, Rosie-posie. I'll be nice and even only make you stay...three hours. That's all I need you to be here for, okay?" I could cry in relief. But that's still a long time. I nod assent, parking my car next to the only vehicles that don't look to be abandoned or on fire.

With the car off, I can only watch in horror the festivities that are occurring before me. Topless women competing for beads, fire-eaters, stilt-walkers, all in terribly done black and white make-up. We haven't even gotten inside of the 'Gathering' yet.

Roxy turns to me, all business. "You gotta take your pohn, phone, in with you. That's how I'll know where you are." She grins at my dubious expression, "I haxxxored it with my awesome abilities, babycakes! I could find you annyyyywheerrreee!" I diddle with my phone, a pretense to stay in my comfort zone just a bit longer. Growing irritated with my reluctance, she reaches over to my side of the car, unbuckling my seat belt and snapping open the door, impatiently shooing me out of my own damn vehicle. "Go on, you snarky brod, broad, Geez!"

With a click of the door locking behind me, I am officially stranded. Roxy ambles amenably out behind me, gesticulating excitedly, "Come on!" Grabbing my hand, she ushers me through the crowds like a well-trained bouncer. I had no idea someone so completely blotto could be so...forcefully graceful. She never ceases to amaze me. Music blares out of speakers dotting the landscape, nightmarish clowns prance about in various states of undress.

It occurs to me that I will definitely stick out like a sore thumb. A majority of the women here wear precious little fabric, which is thusly compensated for with bandanas and white and black face-paint. I don't know if I should be embarrassed for myself or them. Clinging to Roxy as she wades through the crowds, a neon-pink explosion of a shark,I wonder if I'll make it out of this mess un-stabbed. She's a predator that has smelt not-mime-blood, drawing me ever nearer to the entrance of the dreaded 'Dark Carnival.'

Handing me a ticket and my keys, she ushers me to the line with a gentle smile. "It'll be totes okay, Rose." I appreciate the fact she didn't use an annoying nickname. "If you get freaked the fcuck, fuck, out, gimme a call and I'll save you like a white kinight, knight, kay?" I roll my eyes and nod.

Patting her arm lightly, "I assure you, I can endure for three hours." A fratboy cum-juggalo staggers up to us, leering and gesturing for us to kiss. With a swift open palm jab to his solar plexus, I send him on his way. "See? I'll be fine. Thank you for being a bizarre familial relation that attempts to make me happy." She grins and shoots the double-bird to another encroaching idiot, barring his approach.

At the gate, she leans overly close to whisper in my ear, "I'm so proud of you, bb. You be good, and I want you to take lotsa pictures." She stinks to high heaven of gin, but bless her heart for trying to get me out of my funk. With a final wave goodbye, she turns and struts over to a waiting cab. Seriously, how do you get a cab driver to show up at a campground? Her and her conniving ways.

The ticket-master (?) takes my stub and punches it, intoning in a bored voice, "Welcome to the Dark Carnival, sister." The crowd behind me pushes in a wave, and I lose myself to a wash of color and noise.

* * *

Thanks to the anon. Guest, I appreciate it!

Thanks JK! Thanks for putting up with my wweh! I honestly don't know how far this story will go. It's been brewing in my brain like a food baby for a month now, it's got a pretty meaty plotline. Depends on how much time I have to devote to it. (It's so funny in my head, though. soooo funny)

Thanks Chairisse! I heart you coz reasons!

Thanks, Vespren! I appreciate the encouragement!

Thanks, Neverthrive! I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I do intend to continue!


	2. Chapter 2

Once past the frantic pushing and shoving of the initial entrance, the rest of the 'carnival' is...well. A carnival. Clowns abound, both of the insane and balloon-animal toting variety. I'm not thrilled with either. Dust puffs up around my shoes from trampled and sun-shriveled grass as I wander aimlessly through paths strewn with carnival games decorated in nauseatingly garish colors.

Music blares from various speakers interspersed throughout the fairgrounds, cheerfully in discord with one another. Bands compete for attention from side venues, fucks and motherfucks being thrown to the skies with abandon. Crowds swell and fade, especially near what looks to be an amateur fighting ring. Hoots and hollers, "Fuck Yea!" and "Talk shit, get HIT!" fill the air around the 'cage' as two sweaty overweight men in stained shirts grapple with one another. It's clear they're only used to bar brawls, not terribly riveting. I make it a point to leave when someone tosses in a broken bottle. Maybe I'll try to win a teddy bear.

There's a distinct tang of sweat and greasepaint in the air, even more so as the midday sun makes it's presence known. The air is stubbornly still, not a single zephyr to stir it. Kids whine to their parents about the heat like there's some magic remedy to it, suddenly plucked from the skies by their harried guardians. It's the kind of dry heat that makes it difficult to breathe, much less participate in drunken revelry. Groups of teenagers hide under what little shade can be found, snakes hiding from the sun.

Nothing is really holding my interest, each venue just as meaningless to me as the next. I drift without purpose, a ship without an anchor. Perhaps if I were actually a Juggalo much of shouting about Faygo and clown religion from pinstriped tents would have meaning, but. No such luck. I shall not join the choir woop-wooping on this day. Perspiration tickles down my back as my stomach growls. Perhaps it is time for the food court, where ever the hell that is.

Wading through the ubiquitous clouds of pot-smoke and puddles of spilt Faygo/beer, more than one resident of the Dark Carnival gives a less than friendly stare. Passing by a small group ensconced firmly in the shadow of a house of mirrors, I hear the muttered word: "Juggaho." No idea what it means, but if the twisted faces of those who say it are anything to go by, it probably isn't nice.

I do my best to avoid those who mutter it, dodging around and through carnival attractions as the need arises. Which leads to an impromptu Ferris wheel ride with a very pleasant heavyset gentleman in full regalia. He eyes me over as we reach the top, "First time to the Gathering, sister?" Maybe that's it. I nod, a little weak from the height and stiflingly hot air in the cab. And his stink, holy god. It's as if he's rolled in the offal of a thousand sick buffalo. He is completely unaware of it, of course.

The portly fellow slaps his knee and laughs, "It's a sight nerve-racking first time around, ain't it? You gots some homies to follow around?" His eyes rake over me with a private grin. I nod again, because as kindly as this man is, I really don't want to be attached to strangers. Paranoia is a hard habit to break. Trying to take my mind off the horror-terror stink that is my cab-mate, I stare out of the cab. (And possibly press against the window for air.) The carnival stretches all around us in a motley riot, accentuated with the monochrome that is so intrinsic to the ICP paint scheme. I wonder what their houses look like. Perhaps chessboards, or a revisit to the 70's black and white disco decor hell.

The window offers no solace. I struggle to make chitchat through the relentlessly muggy, funky air. The sticky faux leather seat creaks as I turn to face him, "I have to say, I was not expecting...all of this, when I came with my friends this morning. Is it always so crowded?"

The gentleman guffaws loudly, "Hells yes, my bleach blond sister!" I resent the hell out of that, I'm naturally this color! He continues, oblivious to my ire, "We is all sortsa down with partying whole carnival long! Gotta work on days to get shit this legit, yeah?" I don't know what to say. Smiling politely seems to satisfy his quest, he rattles off on the mysteries of Faygo and miracles. Having nothing to offer, I do my best to nod along at the appropriate intervals. I am nothing if not a polite conversationalist. The world dips and bobs as the wheel moves again. Ugh.

I hold my stomach as the wheel finishes its lurching decent, and he holds the door open with a hand extended, "Anyhows, I'm Bowser. Iffen you find yourself dealing with someone harshing your mellow, gimme a shout, yeah? Everybody knows me here." His chest puffs out, and it reminds me of a bird attempting to attract a mate.

I doubt the sentiment but thank him anyway, "I appreciate that, I'm Rose." He mutters my name as I step out, far too intimate and interested for my liking. There's a little glimmer of hope in those muddy brown eyes. Fuck no. I'm not taking home a clown. No. Fucking. Way. "Anyway, I'm going to go find my friends. Thanks for the lovely ride!"

Bowser claps a hand on my shoulder with a mirthful laugh, "Anytime, chica. See you on the laters." He strides away with a causal wave, swathes of black and white clad clowns swallowing him in seconds. What is it with Juggalos and butchering the English language within an inch of its life?! The oppressive heat of midday presses down on the crown of my head, a sure reminder of why I hate going outside. It's almost enough to dull my desire funnel cake. Almost. Flaring my nostrils to get a better sense of which direction to go, I'm secretly glad it's farther from Bowser, and not closer.

I turn to abscond hastily, the kind young man doesn't need to know I'm a sad, friendless loser. Blar. I really should go outside more often...be social. There are friendly people out there, as Bowser so clearly demonstrates. The thought twists my features into something wholly unfamiliar. The smallest of smiles. Gasp, what has the world come to.

As if hearing my semi-hopeful thoughts, a blue-haired girl intentionally shoves herself into my shoulder, screaming and cussing at me to, "Moovveee, Bitch!" The sting of the blow swells and fades with my surprise. So much for that. She advances on me again, screeching from awful navy-lipstick lips as I put up placating hands and back away. Really? Kanaya would have a fit if she saw this. Well. She'd have a fit in general, but blue isn't this girl's color. Curious eyes turn to watch the unfolding of events, the world mutes in that slow, strange, fuge of drilled-in battle readiness. Her eyes are actually a lovely shade of dark blue.

My aggressor seems less than appeased, snarling and snapping out, "The fuck you think you're going, juggaho? I think you should at least fucking say soooorryy for being so fucking rude!" I don't think niceties are really on her mind. She's almost within grasping distance, gesturing angrily. The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end, teeth bared in a grimace of warning. Probably doesn't help my quest for peace. It doesn't, "Are you gonna fucking say something, Juggabitch, or stare like the dumb slut you are?" I distantly notice greasepaint has not been kind to her skin.

Training bends my knees, bunches my muscles in automatic response. Wait. No. I don't want to fight. I could get caught on camera, and that would cause more complications than I'd like to deal with. Trying for apology, I keep a steady retreat, glancing over my shoulder periodically in search of obstacles. The crowds part in greedy anticipation for what they assume will be a 'chick fight.' An enterprising young man shouts at us to 'show your tits.' If my hands weren't otherwise engaged, they would gladly give him the double bird. I must settle for one, to my chagrin. "I do apologize for bumping into you, Miss...?"

Her eyes narrow for a split second as she comes to a stop. If she wasn't a complete psychotic bitch, she'd be pretty, curvy in all the right places, albeit a bit plump. More to squeeze, in my opinion. Shit, she's talking. "Why the fuck you talking all proper, juggabitch? Think you're better than me?! The neerrvve!" She takes a single, predatory step closer, fists raised.

Oh. So I'm not getting out of a fight. The ubiquitous gun-dueling music of spaghetti westerns everywhere comes unbidden. Thank you, Clint Eastwood. For making me smile inappropriately, for it serves to make blueberry bitch snarl and cuss louder. "You dumb cunt! The FUCK you smiling at?" That's just wonderful. I really hope my shoes are tied properly, being betrayed by your footwear during a daring escape is just not the way to go. Rocks crunch underfoot as we make our slow, awkward tango together. I just out of her grasp, she moving ever so steadily forward.

At best, she looks to be an amateur fighter. Her stance is too open, fists clenched improperly. She'll break her thumb if she manages to make contact. I can already hear the haranguing of my survivalist/martial arts nut father in the back of my head, 'Thumbs on the outside! Focus! Where are your outs?' The phantom sting of the flat of his sword against the back of my head still makes me flinch.

Instinct and adrenaline take over as I evaluate the options around me. Smells are sharper, sounds louder, each muted/amplified by the metallic burst of lymphatic excretions. Who knew cotton candy could be so threatening, or calliope music so ominous. Clenching my teeth, my eyes shift rapidly over the crowd, seeking routes of escape. Feint to the left: impossible, baby strollers and a gaggle of pregnant gawkers. Right: equally inadvisable, large hordes of unfriendlies cheering on Miss Blueberry bitch. Can't go forward, blue lipstick meltdown is in the way. Continued retreat it is.

The sappire bomber charges forward with a screech, "And the name, you dumb bitch, is Vriska-" She swings ineffectually, easy to dodge. Her knee connects with my middle with a winding blow. Oh. I underestimated her. Lovely. I wheeze and fight for air, hands up in defense. I will not engage I will not engage I will not engage. (I REALLY WANT TO WRECK THIS CHICK.) "Fucking," Stumbling backwards, I do my best to parry, using her own momentum against her, forcing her to teeter off to the side. She swings her foot instead, making me duck and trip. Dust makes me cough and flail as I fall back into someone's chest. She swings again. Whoever the fuck it is, I'm in a tangled war with their suspenders, chains, and loose clothing. Giving up to the inevitable, I close my eyes and wait. Vriska spits out her last name like an epithet, "Serket."

Muscle coils and moves behind me, an arm wraps around my middle. What the fuck now. I swear if this schumck thinks they're going to hold me down to be a punching bag- Flesh meets flesh with a soft 'Papfh.' My face doesn't hurt, why doesn't it hurt? Cracking an eye open, all I can see is a tattooed to fuck and back arm, and a hand firmly holding raspberry jolly-rancher's fist a few inches from my face. That would be why. Thank you, kind and benevolent disembodied appendage. I owe you homage and cookies.

Vriska howls frustration and tugs at her entrapped hand, "What the fuuuuuck, clown-douche!?" Isn't everyone here a clown-douche? I thought that was the point. V.F.S. hisses and twists her arm in attempt to get free, "Let go of me, you goddamn pothead looooser!" Oddly enough, her expression doesn't match her bravado. There are hints of fear and desperation underneath all of that poisonous hatred. Huh.

The mass behind me rumbles in a chuckle that rattles my teeth, "I'm to be letting you go soonish, sister. Just up and keeping on the peace, yeah?" His knuckles crack in a quick squeeze of Vriska's hand, taking all the fight out of her. Along with the blood out of her face, if the slightly whiter skin at her neckline is any indication. "Ain't no needing to bring down levels harshsome with a motherfucker what's new to the family." He lets go, both of myself and Vriska at the same time with gentle push of encouragement, "Go on and get your recompense, aight?" This dude can't be serious.

Vriska sticks out her hand, stiff armed as a concrete barrier. I guess...okay? Taking her hand, I shake amiably. Her hand is smooth, un-calloused, clearly not a manual laborer nor regular fighter. She pulls me closer, growling and glaring. "Just because cult-clownfreak showed up and saved you doesn't mean this is over, bitch." She tosses away my hand with force, strutting off into the crowd with an exaggerated swagger. How interesting.

Shrugging, I watch her stomp off into the chaos of the carnival tailed by a group of people I could only describe as hyenas, laughing and flipping the bird to anyone who got in their way. When naught a whisp of her hair remains to be seen, I let the adrenaline overtake me in alkaline glory. The world comes alive as I release the tunnel vision of combat down through my shaking frame, imagining that it is leaking out of my boots. That was far too close for comfort.

Stale air tinged with hotdog and sweets make my stomach churn, the bright rainbow of carnival gaiety stabs between my eyes in a burning headache. I need to leave, screw the bet. Roxy could post pictures of me naked right now and I wouldn't care. The burning sun only exacerbates my jangling nerves, sweat and chills mixing together unpleasantly. The grumbling crowd disperses slowly, complaining about my tattooed savior's breaking up of a 'most bitchingest of fights.' One fellow elbows another harshly, "Shit, bro. We coulda seen tits!"

The other claps his friend on the shoulder, directing him to a tent of, and I quote, "The most naked of mirths." I try not to roll my eyes and antagonize any other clown of dubious mental standing. Truly, I would hate to be a stripper in this awful heat.

Bracing myself on my quaking knees and panting, I fight to reel myself back in. I could have really hurt that girl, and she doesn't even know it. The tiresome sickness of self-hatred settles deeper into my weary bones. Nausea rolls across me in waves, making the world spark and spin in dizzying dazzle. I feel his presence before he speaks, hovering behind me uncertainly. I silently will who ever it is to Go. Away.

A (huge) hand rests gently on the center of my back as my savior's menagerie of chains clang and clank against one another. I close my eyes and bite back bile, chanting a prayer that he'd just leave. His voice is a soothing lilt, close enough I can feel his breath stirring my eyelashes. It's evocative of Redpop.

"Serendipitously met, sister!" His hand rubs along my back, reassuring, "Them's some mighty strong shimmy-shakes you got rockin round your frame, chica. Guessing you ain't got no homies what to back you up none, yeah?" Who the fuck is this douchebag, and why is he being so nice.

Snapping my eyes open to glare, I find myself confronted with the deepest blue eyes I've ever seen in my life. They're practically violet, crinkled in the corners in a little smile, and are but a hair's breadth from my face. "There you is, motherfucker, all resplendent in them hues purple." Granted, I don't have much room to talk when it comes to odd eye color. But mine are contacts. (They're really just a boring deep brown. Blah.) So. Nope. Not fascinated by his (really pretty) eyes. No embarrassing hitch in breathing here. Nope nope nope.

He follows me fluidly as I stand up, still in my bubble, still resting a hand on my mid-back. It's ridiculous how tall he is. I barely come up to his nipples and I'm 5'5. That isn't fair. Annoyed, I step back and huff, "I suppose I should thank you." Looking pointedly at his arm, I raise a brow, "Do you mind?" He releases me with a sheepish grin, kicking at rocks with his overly-large feet. But he isn't backing off. Bristling, I realize I don't even know his name. Taking a larger step back, I query, "I must admit I'm not terribly fond of being in the debt of others, Mr...?"

He blinks for a moment before responding, "Oh, shit. Name's Gamzee. Gamzee Makara. Ain't no need to be calling me a mister none. That's all on my pops, babygirl." Gamzee puts out his overly large paw out in invitation, "And who all am I to be making the most felicitous of hellos to?" The timber of his voice makes my skin prickle pleasantly. Nope. Not paying attention to that at all. Deep breath, no need to be rude.

Gamzee's hand dwarfs mine easily when I take it and give a light shake. It's calloused, but not in the way a fighter would be. More like...along the fingertips, the crux of his thumb and index. Artist, maybe. I'm staring. Stop staring. He chuckles as I meet his amused gaze, full poker face and flat intonation, "Rose Lalonde. Pleased to meet you." Not really, but. Politeness is just as much a Stider/Lalonde trait as ridiculous sword fights on rooftops. The pad of his thumb draws across my knuckles as he lets go.

He steps closer, in inexorable pursuit of proximity, "Glad as motherfuck to meet you, Rosie." My eye twitches involuntarily at the pet name. Only Roxy gets away with crap like that. My skin is still slick with chills and sweat, knees busily trying to give way under my weight. I stand tall and defiant anyway. I'm no weakling, I was just taken by surprise. Rawr.

His voice is as soft as cotton as he approaches, slow as if to avoid startling even the slightest mote from the earth, "Thinking you could be using some r&r in the shade, yeah?" Oddly enough, Gamzee really does look concerned, which creates a palliative pool of cool in my middle. Stupid parts of me want to trust him. Why this. Somewhere in Texas, an overprotective father squints into the distance.

I pull away, looking for routes of escape. There are many. I do not use them. The crowd shifts around us as so much sand would. "I probably should, Mr. Makara. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of the food court?" Inspiration strikes, playing a small smirk across my lips, "Hydration might be in my best interest at the moment, and perhaps I could repay your kindness at the same time?" That's me, smooth operator Lalonde. Out of debt and deep in drink. Aw Yiss.

He enters my personal bubble again, lips tipped in a quirk. "Beer wouldn't be the best of quenchers, sister." He smells like sandalwood...and...something I can't quite put my finger on. Familiar and pleasant. My legs make for a desultory step away, and he follows, lightly gripping my elbow. Gamzee flips his mane of curly hair, pointing with his head, "Thinking you ain't should be alone, neither, Rosie. Family ain't too welcoming to people what look like they is a narc, clear as you're seeing it." Really. They think I'm a cop. The truth could not be further, and I suppress a scoff at the concept.

Instinct screams at me to get his hand off my arm. I don't. He tugs me a bit closer, continuing in a purring drawl, "Gots me some extra paint back at the campsite iffen you're willing? Be mad happy to work you up in getting down with the clown, yeah?"

The sun reflects off his unruly dark hair, showing off hidden highlights of chestnut. Why am I looking at his hair. It looks like it might eat people if they stand too close. Gamzee misinterprets my silence, jerking his hand up and away with a worried gnawing of his lip. He leans back with a hand scuffing at the nape of his neck, "Fuck, I ain't mean for that to be sounding all forward and shit! I just was sayin, like. Maybe, iffen you wanted help getting the fit in, and you know, no funny business...and ah, some water?" Gamzee trails off lamely, lips pressed thin with puffed cheek, cracking the grey and white of his paint.

The carnival itself spins on as a whirling dervish would, completely oblivious of our conversation. Despite that, I feel the burning gaze of *someone * staring me down from an unknown corner. Adrenaline licks back up my sides as I imagine all the many reasons someone could be glaring, finding none of them reassuring. A cursory glance reveals none that I would know on sight...but that doesn't mean much. It's been years. They could easily get lost in a sea of anonymous faces. A defeated sigh escapes as I turn to my too tall suitor. Gamzee's framed by the ferris wheel, splashes of color haloing around him like a neon sign of eventuality. He grins widely, holding out a waiting hand.  
Welp. My choices are twofold. Stand here and feel paranoid, or go with him and get my face painted.

It is a carnival, after all. "Very well, Mr. Makara. Lead away."

* * *

Note: Thanks Chairisse, I really liked your suggestions. (And ahahaha you'll find out sooon)

Note: Thanks, 3MM4 M4K4R4! I'm glad you liked it! =0)

Note: Thanks Moon Made of Ink! *puts table back in place* I know it's an odd pairing, but something about a goofy dude riffing off a straight laced chick just makes sense to me. Go figure.

Note: Thanks Neverthrive! I freaking love that you're adding to my juggalexicon! Ninjas and ninjettes will be flying shortly, I assure you.

Note: Thanks Miss Shaye! It really means a lot that you liked my descriptions and stuff! *uguuu* And yes, I love Bowser too with all of his cute jolliness. Ehehehe we dunno what's got Rose's knickers in a bind, but you willl find out eventually. (Omg I love artist hands like holy shit.) I'm pretty excited to write the next chapter, it's been brewing for a bit!

Note: Thanks, Notti! I've...I've been a sad potato bug for a little while. I do intend to continue the story, I've just. I have p. bad depression issues, and sometimes it just kicks my ass to the point I can't really do much. So, yes, I intend to continue, and I'm trying, so yeah. Sorry for the wait. *sighs*


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